


stamped for you

by kinneyb



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:29:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24064357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinneyb/pseuds/kinneyb
Summary: After their fight on the mountain, Jaskier writes Geralt a letter.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 6
Kudos: 242





	stamped for you

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: queermight (request to follow) / tumblr: korrmin

Jaskier stared at the parchment in front of him, blank and taunting him. His eyes flickered to the enchanted stamp Yennefer had given him a few days ago. She had hesitated at his request.

“Are you sure?” she had asked, mouth twisted in a frown.

He had asked for a way to ensure Geralt would get his letter without having to see him. She had suggested the stamp; write your letter, enclose it in an envelope, stamp it and the letter would find the person through any means necessary, enchanted with a light protection spell.

Jaskier had nodded, accepting the stamp. Even he could feel the magic pouring off it.

Yennefer had stopped him before he left, a hand on his arm. She looked out of her element, almost nervous. “He visited me,” she said roughly. They both knew who she was referencing. Jaskier hadn’t seen him since their fight on the mountain. “He’s a mess, Jaskier. He’s been trying to find you, even asked me if there was a locator spell or something.”

He stiffened, skin prickling. “And _is_ there?” he asked, dreading the answer.

She smiled, somehow both sweet and solemn. “Yes,” she said, “but I wouldn’t help him, and the spell doesn’t work unless the person wants to be found and—I’m under the impression you very much don’t want to be found.”

Jaskier had tilted his chin in the air. “You would be right. I’m—” He looked away, jaw tensing. He hadn’t planned on telling her. “I’m leaving.”

Yennefer arched her dark eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“I’m taking a vacation,” he said, thinking of the conversation he had had with Geralt on the rock. His heart ached with the memory. “I’m going to the coast. I don’t know for how long, but I just—I need a break. From everything.”

She nodded, squeezing his arm. “I understand,” she said, sounding surprisingly genuine. “Be safe.”

Jaskier’s eyes flickered back to her face. “Don’t pretend like you care,” he said, harsh and unfair. But if Geralt, who he had considered a friend, could abandon him so suddenly, how was he supposed to believe _she_ cared? “We’re not even friends,” he added before she could reply, feeling sick with his own cruelty.

He expected her usual anger. He didn’t get it. She squeezed his arm again, one last time, before letting go. His arm burned with the memory of her touch. “Take care,” she said simply before opening a portal and stepping through it, leaving him alone again.

Now, back in the present, he struggled to find the words he wanted to tell him most.

_Dear Geralt,_ he wrote finally. He had so much he wanted to say, almost too much; his brain was like a tornado of words, swirling around, taunting him.

He took a shaky breath and looked out the window. He was finally nearing the coast; the air was misty and salty. Jaskier wished Geralt could’ve come with him, but that was just wishful thinking nowadays. They hadn’t seen each other in weeks. Jaskier’s heart urged him to turn around, find him, but his brain was less forgiving. Geralt had finally done it; he had broken them.

Jaskier was tired of constantly fighting to be by his side and for what? To be treated like this? To have his heart broken again and again?

He sniffed, wiping roughly at his eyes. He was done crying. Never again.

Turning back to the blank page, he picked up his quill and dipped it. The words were messy, clawing at the back of his throat. He didn’t care; he just let them pour out, honest and raw, through his fingertips.

_“Sometimes I wonder if you even like me,”_ he wrote, eyes stinging. _“It sure feels like you hate me sometimes. Like I’m just a bother. Well, you win—I won’t ever bother you again.”_

Jaskier paused, closing his eyes. He thought of all the good times they had shared, like that time Jaskier had dunked Geralt in the stream. He had only managed it because Geralt had been relaxed, unsuspecting. He had growled at him, animalistic, and Jaskier had just laughed and laughed, clutching his sides. Until—Geralt had jumped on him, pushing him under the water.

When he resurfaced, Geralt was laughing. It was the first time he had ever heard his real laugh, unabashed and shameless.

Or that time they had went to a brothel and shared a whore. Jaskier still sometimes thought of that night when he was alone in bed, slipping a hand into his trousers. He opened his eyes.

“Fuck,” he said to the empty room, dipping his quill again.

Jaskier focused on the pain, like an arrow through his heart. _“You were supposed to be my friend,”_ he continued. _“That’s all—”_ A tear finally escaped him, smudging the ink. He cursed under his breath and started over. _“That’s all I ever asked of you. To be my friend. To care. In all the ways I cared for you.”_

He had so much more to say, heavy in the pit of his stomach, but he just didn’t have the energy.

_“Goodbye, Geralt.”_

Jaskier folded the parchment in half, slipping it in an envelope and stamping it. He signed the front with his name. _Julian Alfred Pankratz._

*

Jaskier arrived at the coast a few days later. He rented a room at one of the local inns. Ironically he didn’t actually visit the water for a few long days, just lounged in his room, playing his lute or sleeping, only leaving for food and to wash off.

Finally, on the fifth day, feeling better, he left the inn and walked to the water.

There were a few people there, as expected, playing in the water and sitting together on the sand, talking in hushed voices or even kissing. Jaskier’s stomach lurched at the sight, looking away.

He never thought he’d be sickened by the sight of kissing. How the mighty have fallen.

Walking along the water, he found a spot far from any others and crouched down. He picked up a stick and drew in the sand, mostly just random shapes.

When he was younger, he had loved the coast. He loved the salty smell of the water, the soft sand under his feet, the sound of the crashing waves.

He had hoped it would be a familiar comfort, but it wasn’t.

Jaskier still felt like he was standing on that mountain, slowly inching toward the edge. He kept imagining falling off, how Geralt would react, if he would even try to catch him. His eyes stung.

“Not again,” he grumbled, wiping at his eyes.

He heard them before he saw them; approaching footsteps, sand crunching. Jaskier sat up a little straighter.

“Fuck off,” he said harshly. He really didn’t want company right now. He wanted to be alone, for now and maybe forever.

The person did not leave or even say anything. Sighing, he stood up. “Look, I—”

But his words caught in the back of his throat, choking him, at the sight of the last person he expected to see. Geralt. He looked terrible, to be frank, dark bags under his eyes and hair a greasy mess, stuffed back in a ragged bun. Jaskier couldn’t judge; he probably didn’t look much better.

He took a step back, skin prickling. “What are you doing here?”

Geralt was silent for a long, long moment, just staring at him. Jaskier finally couldn’t take it any longer.

“Geralt,” he said roughly. “What are you doing here?”

He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting but it wasn’t—“I’m here for you,” he said, stepping forward. “Jaskier, your letter. I received it a few days ago and I didn’t know what to do. I visited Yen and—”

Jaskier frowned, suddenly angry. “She told you?” he interrupted hotly. He knew the answer by the way he winced, just a split-second flinch.

Geralt reached for him. Jaskier slapped his hand away. He didn’t try again.

“She thought she was doing the right thing, Jaskier,” he said quietly. “She—she was trying to help me.”

Jaskier nearly spit in his face. “Don’t make excuses for her.”

Geralt stared at him. “Okay,” he said finally. “I won’t. This isn’t about her. This is about us.” He paused. “About me.”

“You should go, Geralt,” he said, not wanting to hear it. That was a lie, of course. He wanted to hear what he had to say but he wasn’t sure he could take it. They had garnered a bit of a crowd, watching them and whispering amongst themselves. Jaskier could already imagine the wild rumors that would be circulating the Continent tomorrow about the White Wolf and his bard, the renowned Jaskier. “There are people watching.”

He expected that to do the trick; Geralt had always hated attention but—

“Let them watch,” he said gruffly, reaching for him again. Jaskier stiffened as he took his hand. His brain told him to pull his hand back. His heart begged him not to. He listened to the latter. “Jaskier—Julian,” he corrected, “I don’t have the words for how sorry I am. That shouldn’t be surprising; words have never come easily to me. Not the way they do for you.”

Jaskier remembered struggling over the letter for days and his eyes stung.

“What I did—what I said—on the mountain was unfair and you didn’t deserve it. Any of it. You have been my most loyal companion for years, and I don’t think I knew what to do with that.”

Jaskier swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Don’t bother with your excuses,” he said weakly.

Geralt nodded, lightly squeezing his hand. He wasn’t wearing his gloves; Jaskier could feel the warm roughness of his skin. “No excuses,” he agreed. “You were there and I was angry. I needed to let it out, and you were there. You were always there, resilient. That should’ve made me appreciate you, but instead I took that for granted, thinking you would always be there.”

“Well,” he said tersely, staring at their hands. “You didn’t. No changing the past.”

Geralt nodded, lips pressed together in a thin line. “You’re right,” he agreed again. Jaskier wasn’t sure he had ever heard him so agreeable. “I can’t change how I treated you, but I can promise to be better from here on out.” His thumb stroked over his knuckles, an unexpected but no less soothing touch. “Give me another chance, Jaskier. Be my travel companion again.”

Jaskier couldn’t look at him. He knew he would crack. “You think you can wash away all the hurt with a few pretty words?”

“No,” he replied gruffly. “Don’t take my word for it. Let me show you. A month or two. If you still feel the same way after that—” Geralt hesitated and Jaskier finally looked up. “I will never bother you again.”

The pain he’d been feeling for so long lessened, just a little. He no longer felt like there was an arrow in chest, piercing his heart, but the wound—the wound was still raw. “On one condition,” he said around the lump in his throat.

Geralt squeezed his hand, standing taller. “Anything.”

Jaskier smiled slightly, a single tear spilling down his cheek. “I need my own horse.”

The laugh he got out of Geralt was pure joy. He nodded curtly. “As soon as we leave here,” he assured him. Jaskier’s eyes flickered to the water. Geralt’s hand wiggled down, slotting their fingers together. “But no rush.”

*

Four months later, they saw Yennefer again. Jaskier hugged her without warning and she stumbled a bit, obviously not expecting it. “Is this some kind of ruse?”

Jaskier laughed lightly, pulling back. Yennefer’s eyes danced all over his face. He knew why; he looked wildly from the last time they had crossed paths, and so did Geralt.

“You look… healthier,” she said slowly.

Jaskier looked over at Geralt. “Healthier,” he agreed, “and happier.”


End file.
